


Tribulation

by laEsmeralda



Series: Walking the Walk [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal struggles with death, right versus wrong, and Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tribulation

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story of my White Collar series, _Walking the Walk_

There had been lots of daily time for grieving in prison. Blissfully, no one on the inside expected him to chat. He could quietly grieve during the useful tasks he performed for his fellow inmates; Mr. C’s particular brand of intelligence saved him from rendering far less pleasant services. 

Being out was better in all respects but one—less time to cry. June with her kindness and her apartment, the wide outside world, his research stashed all around, Mozzie, the anklet marking his fruitless bargain—all of it set off fresh waves of pain that he couldn’t indulge. He studiously avoided any contact with Peter’s Elizabeth in the beginning. The softness in her eyes gave him nowhere to hide. 

And out here, he had to be charming and breezy, put on a brave face, please the suits. It was good to have distraction, to let his mind out to play. But Neal understood that part of healing is putting the time in to examine, in great detail, exactly the parts of death—and your part in it—that you don’t want to see. Neal had been controlling his relationships with people to survive since he was eight. The downside was that he could never really be close. Even with Kate. But she had been closest.

He had chosen, without knowing it, to let her die alone while he danced on the edge of a different cliff. He had shed tears in front of Peter, standing between this world and Kate. Wanting so badly for Peter to say something else than to tell him to do the right thing. He thought he had seen that something, but no. Still, it had saved his own life. Guilt and more guilt.

So the only time for her now was instead of sleep and on the weekends. He would exhaust himself crying, not allow himself drink to mask or distort his feelings. Icing his face during first morning coffee had become part of his routine.

 _They were so busy with cases that it took Peter three whole days to notice that part of Neal had gone missing. The next day, Peter and Mozzie started meeting in the park. They didn’t tell Neal._  
*******

It was a Saturday afternoon, the second weekend of “freedom.” Neal had forced himself to sit for coffee and breakfast with June and Moz, to pretend to look at the paper, and to take a shower, but that was as far as he could go. He was back lying on the bed, and the tears just wouldn’t stop. Well past the point of sobbing, he found that they just ran freely if he didn’t fight them.

The knock was unmistakably Peter’s. He hesitated. June’s staff might not have said he was home. And then the obvious occurred to him; Peter always knew where he was. He wiped his face and went to the door. Peter’s eyes took him in and flashed sympathy faster than the man could cover it. 

Neal realized he was body-blocking the door and stepped away, letting it swing open. He shrugged at his personal disarray, which contrasted with the OCD neatness of the apartment. “Come on in—sorry, wasn’t expecting company.” 

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Peter’s voice was extra gentle. He clearly wasn’t the suit today, not playing the boss role. He wore khakis and a T-shirt, scuffed sneakers, a gym bag which he set by the door as it closed, but he hadn’t been sweating. “Listen…” Peter began, searching Neal’s face. “It isn’t my place to be here. You have friends who know you a lot better than I do. But it just felt wrong not to. I’m not blind. I feel like I should have come sooner.” His voice caught a little, and that did it. 

Neal felt the sharp pain of tears rushing to respond to kindness and bit his lip to stop it trembling. He stepped back, not at all what he wanted to do. But Peter matched the step. Neal swiped at the fresh drops on his face. “Don’t…” he whispered because his voice would crack if he used it.

Peter had his hand out, as though he’d just asked a frightened teenager to put down the gun. “Just because I wanted you to stay didn’t mean I failed to understand your love for Kate. People tell you that you have to let her go. That’s totally wrong. You don’t let go, you make different space for her inside yourself and go on. It’s a bitch of a process. Stop trying to hide it from me. Let me help.”

“I can’t talk about it,” Neal finally managed. “The words just stick.”

Peter smiled, trademark rueful. “I said let me help, I didn’t say let me be your therapist, God forbid.” He put his hands on his hips and surveyed Neal more carefully. “For starters, you’re ashamed of crying. Don’t be. Grown men do cry when it’s called for.”

“I don’t remember you breaking down on the tarmac,” Neal shot back. It stung that he had felt the imbalance of that moment, Peter caring but maybe also there to preserve an asset, Neal feeling searing pain at the loss to come with either choice, and being unable to hide it.

Peter’s expression tightened for an instant. “Don’t fall back on anger. I think you’re past that stage.” He stepped in and put his arms around Neal.

Neal certainly couldn’t hide the trembling then. It took a moment of conscious effort to allow himself to lean in, and then Peter enfolded him in a firm embrace. If Neal had thought he was finished with tears, he stood corrected. Peter didn’t try to shush him, he held him, took on some of his weight, and slowly rocked, just a little. 

_The stifled sounds got to him more than anything else, Neal still trying to maintain dignity. Peter didn’t push him or scold him to let go, just held him until he stopped fighting. It was probably good that Neal couldn’t see that his own eyes were wet. Somebody else had to be strong just now so that Neal didn’t have to be._  
*******

Neal woke up on the bed, sunlight dancing high on the wall. His eyelashes were still sticky but he felt refreshed, a feeling he hadn’t had in months. He allowed himself to lie there a few minutes and luxuriate in what Peter had given him. Safety. Care for his pride. Comfort that he felt to his bones. And quiet, for a brief time, in that part of his mind that felt too guilty to move on in life without Kate. 

That quiet allowed for some other recollections to sneak in. After he couldn’t cry anymore, the feel of Peter’s neck against his lips, the worn t-shirt wet and soft under Neal’s cheek, the strength of that big body sheltering him had started to sing a different note. So he had gently, reluctantly, eased away. 

He had wobbled a little as they disengaged and Peter caught his upper arm. “How about you lie down. It might help to sleep.”

“Feels like I’ve been doing nothing else.”

“That’s an illusion of your driven perspective, my friend, believe me. I’m doing those 70-hour weeks right alongside you. They kicked my ass even long ago when I was your age.”

Neal had snorted. “You always talk like you’re over the hill. You gotta stop that.” But he had obeyed and once lying down, couldn’t even mumble his appreciation he was asleep so fast. 

He was pretty sure Peter had pulled the blanket over him, maybe even ruffled his hair. Now, he stretched himself more awake, trying to ignore the feeling in his belly that could so easily lead to a session with his hand. And in his head, that would go nowhere helpful. 

Instead, he rolled to his feet and padded to the kitchen for a glass of water, taking it down in four gulps. And froze at a small noise. Slowly, he turned, as though that somehow would be quieter. 

Peter was flung back on the couch, asleep, headphones in, perhaps a baseball announcer droning quietly in the background. An open case file had slid to the floor next to him. 

Neal had a moment of deep relief that he had followed his thirst instead of his gut in his choice of post-nap activities. Then, he went to stand next to the couch. Now he could hear that Peter had music on, not a game. He took his time, and looked.

He had tried to understand for himself why _this man._ He still didn’t have a worthy answer. This enforcer, fiercely faithful to his wife, conventional on the outside, even a bit frumpy. An intentional philistine who knew exactly how to taste a great wine and avoided knowing how to flirt with a woman. Fixated on ethics, not just proper procedure. But duplicitous or he couldn’t do his job. Able to lie to Neal even while Neal refused to lie to him. Smart… so canny. Neal could perhaps out-IQ him but not outwit him or outrun him. But it wasn’t that, or not only that, the siren of the adversarial thrill like it had been with Alex in their early years of social engineering. Neal had also thought long and hard about the elder-brother archetype, the longed-for champion he never had. Peter as mentor, protector, reluctant disciplinarian. Definitely a factor. But he couldn’t reduce it to that either. None of it explained why he trusted this man and no one else.

People called Neal a chameleon, not understanding that his ability to slide into different characters reflected his internal metamorphic ability, not just a change of surface. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a personality, a strong self, but it could be authentically expressed in many different ways. That’s what made him such a convincing con. 

Neal shook his head at his folly, but allowed himself to keep studying anyway, feeling the attraction and still trying to analyze it. Peter stirred in his sleep, eyelids flickering in dream, shifting his legs. Neal sucked in a breath—Peter was hard and the khakis were so unforgiving. He willed himself to walk away. It didn’t work. It so didn’t work that he found himself on his knees, contemplating a far greater folly. If only Peter would just wake up, Neal wouldn’t have to decide, he could just hand back the case file and smile. 

Neal was a careful planner, but impulse control had always been a challenge.

An able and nimble pickpocket, Neal had Peter in his mouth and well on toward a happy ending before the man awoke. The natural tendency to incorporate real-world sensations into one’s dreams favored Neal, and he wasn’t at all surprised or hurt by the chuckling utterance of Elizabeth’s name at the beginning or its rougher repetition toward the end. 

Apparently, there were stylistic differences, or maybe the feel of Neal’s hair was wrong to Peter’s fingertips, or it could be that Peter hadn’t had a wet dream in a very long time, because he didn’t stay dreaming through the finale. 

Neal was clear that the sharp utterance of his name arose from horrified surprise, not ecstasy, but he stayed for the straining and shuddering—certainly wasn’t going to run at the worst possible moment—and he felt his face heat in genuine shame. As soon as he could swallow, he scrambled away and bolted, grabbing the jacket and sneakers he always kept by the door and tearing down the stairs and out without a backwards look.  
*******

_“El, a little before Kate died, Neal said I’m the only one in his life he trusts. Sure, it was flattering, but he was drugged out of his right mind. Now, I think I didn’t take it seriously enough. I didn’t realize how underwater he was.”_

_“What aren’t you telling me? No, wait, too hard to process this by phone with clients nagging at me. Just tell me, is Neal okay? Are you okay?”_

_“I went over to see him today. I think it helped at first. And maybe I made everything worse.”_

_“Tell me all about it tomorrow night. I promise you’ll have my full attention. I love you.”_

_“I love you too.”_

_Peter drove the rest of the way home without knowing how he got there._  
*******

Neal ignored Peter’s first three calls and two voicemails. He couldn’t bear to go home and risk running into Peter until he was sure he was gone. Finally, freezing his ass off in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, blazer, and shoes with no socks, he picked up. “I don’t know what to say to you, I couldn’t even listen to your messages. Don’t worry, Diana or Jones can take me back, you won’t have to see…”

“Would you shut up, Caffrey? That’s an order.”

That stopped him. There came an extended silence. Then, Peter sighed. “That wasn’t consensual.”

It didn’t feel possible for Neal’s face to heat any hotter. “Please forgive me… I didn’t mean—”

“Stop. Just stop. I don’t want a misunderstanding between us.”

Neal almost laughed out loud. His intellect couldn’t resist responding. “You were asleep. Unconscious. How could there be a misunderstanding, exactly?”

“For God’s sake, could you be quiet for sixty seconds? I need you to listen.” Peter’s frustration made his voice sharp. “Before today, here and there, I thought I sensed some… attachment on your part. So help me, I shared and I welcomed it, sentimental wretch that I am. For that, my wife will not stop teasing me, even though she is your single biggest fan herself. But I never guessed you were… attracted to me.” Peter paused. “You have to admit that your ladykiller persona is a little confusing in this context. I knew it was a character, I thought I knew it because of Kate. I just didn’t know how much of an act it was.”

“It’s not an act. —That was sixty seconds by the way.” Neal took a deep breath. “Let’s just say I work both sides of the aisle. Nonpartisan. Only I don’t usually have to speak of it. And it is proving really, really hard to talk about. The upshot is that I should never have done _that._ We could, maybe, pretend that it didn’t happen? Consider it a bizarre grief-glitch?”

Another extended silence. “I have to tell El. I just spoke to her on the phone and didn’t say anything. I feel like a total liar.”

Neal groaned. “But you didn’t _do_ anything.” 

Peter didn’t answer. 

“You’re going to tell her anyway.” 

“Luckily, she’s out of town until tomorrow night. I have a little time to figure out how to explain.”

Neal took a moment to man up. “It’s simple. After you pick her up and get her settled in at home, run an errand. Call in the extension on my leash. I’ll come over and tell her myself.”

“I don’t see that going well.” 

“Elizabeth always responds to the absolute truth. She knows who you are. So I’ll tell her the truth. That you let me cry on your shoulder. You fell asleep on my couch because you were afraid to leave me alone like that.” He flinched a little to get the next part out. “I… did what I did, and you thought I was her. You said her name. Twice.” 

“I did?” 

In his haste to get through the next part, Neal didn’t register Peter’s surprise. “Monday, have Diana come take me back. I’ll be ready to go.” He almost hung up right then.

“Wait, dammit. I don’t want you back in prison. I want you out here, working with me. What part of that have I made unclear?”

Neal was taken aback, then closed his eyes in relief. He didn’t speak.

“I’m a grown man, fully capable of seeing you face-to-face without freaking out. I’ll prove it. Meet me for coffee tomorrow morning. We’ll go over some leads.”

“I’m too much myself right now. You let me be that today, without any filters. I felt almost whole when I woke up. That’s apparently a little dangerous. I’ll get a handle on it by Monday.”

“Listen, you aren’t letting me own any of this.”

“Really. So tell me.”

The silence stretched. Finally, Peter said, “What’s to own is… is… complicated.”

“What isn’t?” Neal parried, and then he hung up.

All the shame didn’t stop him, that night, from thinking about Peter when he finally gave in and got himself off. It took a long time for the sweat to dry.  
******* 

 

Elizabeth’s one careful glass of wine sat half full between them on the coffee table. Her eyes had gotten big, but she hadn’t slapped Neal or ordered him out of the house. “You are always a surprise,” she said.

He met her gaze with some difficulty. Since the first, she’d been good to him. Loving even. She hadn’t made him feel judged. So the next part was particularly hard. “It wasn’t my idea to say anything. Peter insisted that he had to tell you. It wasn’t right for him to have to—he didn’t do anything wrong.” He traced an imaginary circle on the coffee table. “I would have never breathed a word, even though you’ve been so generous with me. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that deep down I’m an honest guy.”

He was surprised when she broke into a toothy smile. “No wonder he’s sounded sheepish on the phone yesterday. And running off to do an errand as soon as he got me home? I knew that was a pretense.”

In the absence of anger from her, he felt, oddly, a little disrespected. “I think you wouldn’t react this way if I were a woman.”

“Damn right, I’d claw your eyes out. Or do whatever civilized equivalent would keep me out of jail.” She reached out and took his hand. “Given enough time together, there are things a good partner senses about the other. Peter and I have a rich life together. I should be plenty of woman for him. If he went to another woman for sex or intimacy, it would be a betrayal and I wouldn’t tolerate it.” She let Neal’s hand go. “But I’m not man enough for anybody.” 

“El… I think you’re wrong about him. I’ve never seen any sign.”

She took a swallow of wine. “Let’s talk about you first. I could see what’s been happening to you around him. That part doesn’t surprise me at all—I fall in love with him regularly. You’re a better person than you believe yourself to be, or than you’ve allowed yourself to be. That said, the extraordinary loyalty you’ve given him, so fast, the man who dragged you out of your high-life and put you in prison? I knew that was about more than admiration.” She studied him for a few uncomfortable moments. “You’re so—almost proud—about truly bad things like stealing and doing time, why is _this_ part of yourself something to hide?”

“I’m consistent, El. It’s about survival in the world I’ve known. ’Two-natured’ is at best a pop culture reference to being a were-beast. To people of either exclusive orientation, people like me are unpredictable and aren’t to be trusted. And my… former… line of work is all about being trusted.” He didn’t sugar coat it.

“I see,” she said, not looking entirely sympathetic. “I do have to say that I’m surprised you made a move. If nothing else, you’d worry that he’d reject you. That suggests to me that he’s responding—subtly—and you sensed that he’s open to you. You read people like no one else I’ve ever met.”

“It was simply that my guard was way down. He was impeccably… brotherly.” 

She shook her head. “You’re having an effect on him. Something I’ve never seen before.” 

“In my admittedly narrow real-world experience, men don’t just wake up one day and decide to be sexually cued to other men.”

El smiled a little slyly. “I didn’t say that, did I?” She sighed. “Despite being steeped in the homophobic culture of athletics and then Quantico, Peter has always had gay and lesbian friends in his circle. And Diana came to him first when she and Christie started having problems, even though he was her boss. That’s unusual.”

“That’s just tolerance. Peter’s all about doing the right thing and people know that.”

“I know it looks like sympathy for the plight of others but it’s empathy too. He’s never been ashamed of recognizing other men’s qualities or paying compliments that most guys would never utter.” 

“Easily explained by humbleness and generosity. Peter doesn’t compete with anyone else; unlike me, he stands on his own merit. So, he can build others up—he doesn’t have to tear them down to be better.”

“Yes, it’s one of the dear things about him. Okay, I’m going about this far too obliquely. Let’s try this. Does he strike you as particularly interested in men’s fashion?”

Neal snorted. “Pleated trousers?” 

“Right.” She reached over, pulled a stack of European men’s fashion magazines out from underneath the latest edition of _Baseball Digest_ , and thrust them at Neal. “These are not mine.” 

Neal thumbed through them. “Articles?” he asked, half-sardonically.

She chuckled. “He’s never hidden this from me but I bet he wouldn’t take them to work or let a male colleague see them here. That tells me that it means something… private to him.” 

“Not much to go on. It isn’t exactly porn.”

“Humor me. Open that one.” She indicated a tattered, last-fall issue.

When he pulled it out, it fell open to a where the spine had been repeatedly flattened. On the left, there was a headline with a photo from a New York City Ballet performance and columns of text. On the right, a full-page lone dancer posed, bare-chested in trousers, face tilted down and away, his fedora perched just so. Neal looked up at El, his heart suddenly racing. 

“There’s just a bit more. But I’m keeping that marital privilege close. The upshot is, you’ve awakened a sleeping dragon.” 

To Neal, she looked a little shaken, saying that out loud. Or maybe it was just his surprise, projected onto her. He carefully put the whole pile back, under the baseball mag. “I care about you, Elizabeth. Very much. I’m willing to quit the bureau to make this right. I mean that. If I stay out here, Peter will keep me working with him. Either way, I promise you I won’t cross the line again.” He fought himself every word of the way to make that promise, but he meant it.

“You’re not _hearing_ me. I can see that I have to spell this out.” She folded her hands resolutely. “I want this to go wherever it goes. If Peter ends up approaching you…”

“He’s not going to.” 

She quelled him with a look. “Don’t be such a dummy. Now that you’ve broken the ice, and once I let him know how I feel, I can say with confidence that it’s a simple matter of time for him.”

Neal digested that. “Okay, hypothetically, what if down the road it isn’t casual for him?”

“It isn’t casual for him _now._ Good Lord, don’t hurt him, Neal. Not if you can possibly help it. I’ll ask that much of you. I’ve thought about this, obviously, a lot more than either of you have. I know how to ask for what I want and speak up about what I don’t want. I’m offering to share what’s most precious to me. If you get greedy or make this in any way about a game, I’ll tell you to back off, and if you don’t, I’ll _make you_.”

He nodded at the challenge in her voice. “Fair enough.”

She softened again. “You came here tonight to protect him, to confess and take on all the punishment I could dish out. That says all I need to know right now. I’ve just told you that you have my blessing. Why aren’t you celebrating?” 

Neal was overwhelmed. He pushed her glass aside, leaned over, and kissed her, very softly, on the mouth. It wasn’t brotherly, but it wasn’t overly naughty either. She giggled just a little. “One other thing...” She pulled back to look him in the eyes, and he could see mirth and a spark of desire. “If anything ever does happen, I think, just maybe, I might want to hear some details. I want your advance consent that Peter can tell me.”  
*******

They worked together as though nothing had happened. They cleared cases, verbally sparred, and had an outright fight about Neal’s attempted double-play with the Krugerands, all without a hint of any oddness. It took Peter several days to forgive Neal for that little nondisclosure. After confirming that Alex got on the plane and that no one who boarded got off before it taxied, he asked Neal to meet for coffee. It was their first time together and not working since the strange afternoon. 

“Thank you for talking with El. I meant to say that ages ago.”

“No worries,” Neal replied. “I’m still alive.” 

Peter smiled. And that was all they said about _it_. They went on with other topics and things went back to normal. On the outside. On the inside, Neal couldn’t put it away. 

Peter continued to provide little comforts: a hand on Neal’s shoulder, a pause over a case file to ask if he was okay, a compassionate smile at just the right times. It made Neal feel downright achy in the chest. 

Neal was worried that his hero-worship demeanor, and his usual practice of making extended eye contact with Peter (which people logically interpreted as his attempt to seem more credible or get on Peter’s good side) were magnified by what he could only describe as his yearning to elicit a response from Peter. In compensating, of course, he had pulled it back a little too much.

“You have another fight with the boss?” Diana teased one morning. “It’s obvious that he won, you know. You should just let it go, whatever it is. Quit giving him the cold shoulder. He seems impervious but he’ll secretly feel hurt. I ought to know.”

So he trusted Peter, and tried to fall back into just being himself. And of course, Peter pulled it off beautifully. So beautifully, Neal figured that was that.  
*******

He hadn’t stopped crying about Kate. Moz had warned him it could be a year or more of unpredictable tears. So he accepted it, stopped counting, and still cried.

Meanwhile, the only way to cope with moving through the daily _normalness_ with Peter seemed to be to elaborately develop and fiercely indulge a fantasy life about him when alone. 

For a couple of weeks, there existed a frightful juxtaposition between the differing expressions of his feelings for Kate and for Peter. So, he created little rituals of separation… for example, never thinking about Kate in the shower, on weekend afternoons, when occupying the couch, or right before going to sleep. He never fantasized about Peter when he was drawing, relaxing in the big armchair, or in the morning before work. He wrote letters to Kate in his journal and never spoke to her of Peter. His fantasies about Peter never involved being comforted about Kate.

Perhaps because his sadness about Kate could now involve words, it settled into a steadier rhythm. As it did so, he realized that his rich imaginary affair with Peter only served to make the difference between night and day too stark. He willed himself to stop it. And succeeded. Mostly. Then, he decided it was time to move on, time to acknowledge how unfulfilled he felt about both Kate and Peter, and to have sex with someone real for the first time in a very long time. He had to break the spell.

Out in the real world, he learned that men can spot, and tend to shy away from grief no matter how deeply masked. That made Peter seem even more remarkable. Which didn’t help.

He also discovered that women trust sadness more than they do confidence, and most are drawn to that extra vulnerability in a man. So that was the way the river flowed, and too tired to fight the current, Neal let it take him.  
*******

 

The first woman to lay Neal’s brains out, although something of a predator, left behind a white rosebud on her hotel pillow. It seemed to him an acknowledgement that she’d sensed his pain somewhere during the athletics. Or maybe it was just her calling card. 

He had observed that heiresses can procure all sorts of unusual things at odd hours without the interruption of knocks or ringing doorbells—and the flower was the tamest of items this particular specimen had produced throughout the night. It was also her most surprising act, although he discovered a close second in the open closet—she had caused his shirt to be laundered, suit pressed, shoes shined, and a lovely new tie was draped over the shirt to replace the trophy she had apparently taken. Knowing he could go straight to work took the sting out of finding and disposing of various pieces of used latex before showering so that task wouldn’t fall to the maids. He still tipped extra for champagned sheets—he had actually imbibed none of the sparkling wine, extensive smudges on the black marble coffee table, and general disarray.

He removed a few thorns and buttonholed the rose for the office that day. His body felt great, his mind was clear, and the new tie rocked. 

Before he even hit the FBI elevator, he surmised that Peter would already know that his anklet hadn’t made it home. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but everything was business as usual. No stern looks. No lecture. The bit of disappointment he felt that Peter wasn’t miffed actually embarrassed him.  
*******

A few nights later, he was drawing in the kitchen, listening to Mahler and the heavy rain, when that distinctive knock sounded. He looked at the door in surprise. Peter would have called if they had a case and his phone had been silent at his elbow. 

He wiped charcoal on a rag. Momentarily tempted to put on his hat, he unceremoniously crushed the urge. 

Peter was mid-knock again when Neal opened the door. Peter’s coat was wet and so was his hair. June’s guest parking spot had been available all evening, so Peter must have hesitated outside. “Anything wrong?” Neal asked. 

“Just felt like I should come over. See how you are.”

“It’s late and I’m not sleeping. How’d you know?”

Peter shrugged. “Am I interrupting… anything this time?” 

Naked from the waist up, Neal couldn’t fault the question. He showed his smudged hands. “I was just drawing. Here, give me your coat. So, Elizabeth’s been out of town two days.”

“Yeah.

“And you’re not sleeping either.” This could possibly be the second consecutive late night Peter had driven over to notice that Neal’s lights were on. “Beer?” Neal headed for the fridge. Moving would help conceal his nerves. On his way, he casually hit the button to draw the heavier curtains. 

“Since when do you keep beer on hand?”

Neal turned and dramatically raised an eyebrow. It had the desired effect of eliciting a chuckle. After handing off the bottle, Neal parked a hip against the table, arms folded, and watched Peter sip and carefully page through the open sketchbook. Nothing incriminating there. Fortunately. 

“You’re talented.” 

“Thank you.” False modesty was pointless. He hadn’t gone to jail for artistic flaws.

Peter set aside his beer. “In many pursuits.”

It sounded like sexual innuendo to Neal. In keeping with his no-more-fantasy approach, he decided that must be only because the beer had lowered the timbre of Peter’s voice. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“Define trouble,” Peter replied. He wasn’t making eye contact.

“You here to warn me that I’m going back to prison?”

Startled, Peter looked up. “Have you done something?”

Neal shrugged. “The bureau bundling me off on a whim is just one of several likely reasons for you being here at this hour without calling ahead. Offer me an alternative explanation.” Now that a case, personal catastrophe, and criminal prosecution had been eliminated, Neal was pretty sure he understood the purpose of the visit but wasn’t going to presume.

Peter rubbed what should have been well-past-five-o’clock shadow that he, interestingly, didn’t have. “I suck at this.”

Neal contemplated the possible meanings hidden in Peter shaving before his visit. “That all depends upon what _this_ is.”

“Last time I came over, it was to offer support.”

“And you were very good at that.” It was said, and meant, sincerely, and perhaps there was just a bit of lust he couldn’t keep out of his voice. “Is that why you’re here now?”

Peter’s head nodded side to side. “Worry at your seemingly chronic insomnia is one of the reasons I came up.” He glanced at the considerable pile of used tissues within reach.

“My insomnia is apparently your insomnia,” Neal replied. He didn’t carry on with a tease that Peter’s personal attention to his wakefulness was going beyond the call of duty. “No need to worry about my grief process, Peter. It’s going to be a long haul, but I’m not hiding it from you or Moz anymore. That helps.”

“I said worry was _one_ of the reasons.” Peter almost reached for the beer bottle, and checked himself. He took a moment. “On the phone a month ago, I chickened out.”

Neal took a deep breath and considered carefully what to say. “Ah, the _complicated_ part.”

“So hear me out this time and I’ll manage it. Don’t do that ‘Mr. C tries to make everything smooth’ thing you do.”

Neal stifled a smile. “Okay.”

“Okay then.” Peter shifted his stance, trying to settle, and finally leaned on the counter. “When you let me… be comforting… I was glad I could be there for you. I told you on the phone that I’ve become attached. And I had done such a poor job of talking to you at the hanger. I lectured and didn’t tell you how much I didn’t want you to go. Personally. Not as an asset. It was a big relief to be able to show it and to be of some help.” His voice thickened for a moment.

Neal started to say something, and Peter held up a warning hand. 

“Not finished. I started out feeling very older-brother and pleased with myself. But after you were just there quietly, it became… different. I started to notice things like how you smelled, how your body felt—guy smell, guy feel.” Peter fiddled with the bottle cap, giving it more scrutiny than necessary to keep it turning. “It was exquisitely good to hold you,” he admitted. “Like the universe settled for a moment. I realized that I always look forward to what little physical contact we have.” Peter’s eyes flicked up, and they seemed darker than usual, the brown deeper, before they focused back on the bottle cap. “I said it wasn’t consensual. Didn’t mean it couldn’t have been. That’s what I had to own. It wasn’t all you. Okay, now I’m done.” He flicked the bottle cap across the kitchen into the recycling and took a short slug from the bottle, remarkably, still mostly full. 

Neal understood how difficult that set of declarations had to have been. “You’re an even braver man than I gave you credit for,” he said, carefully, “but sometimes when people feel close in extreme situations, feelings get confused.” 

Peter took on a somewhat vacant look, enough that Neal could hope he was maybe finding himself a little bit back there on the couch, in a good way. And then he focused again. “Is that what it was for you, confusion?” Peter asked.

Neal could see the pulse rabbiting in Peter’s neck. “You keep asking me to do the right thing, and that day… was so not the right way to go. I lost impulse control. But I’m trying to do the right thing here and now.”

“I’m asking, because I’m not confused at all. It took some time. I could have handled it better instead of just seeming to go on like nothing happened but I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry for that.”

Still unwilling to facilitate, Neal waited.

“There is one thing that keeps nagging at me. It’s that… why would you, of all people… what I mean to say is that you’re young, and annoyingly good-looking, and crazy smart. So why me?” Peter looked genuinely puzzled. 

It was a charmingly different reason for “why” than Neal had asked himself weeks ago staring down at Peter, and his resolve wavered in the face of it. So he tried to be matter-of-fact. “I’m ignoring the possible self-esteem problem the question suggests because that would be bullshit. And I prefer to pay compliments spontaneously. Younger women often go for older men—your wife for one.” He purposefully caught Peter’s eyes for the next part. “But maybe the issue is that you still don’t trust me. I can tell you what it isn’t. It isn’t your position. It isn’t what you can or can’t do for me. I understand that might seem difficult to believe, but you already try so hard not to favor me that you disfavor me. How does that help me?” Neal leaned forward, just a bit, to convey his intent. “We don’t choose who attracts us, Peter, or who we love. We only choose what we do about it.”

Peter moved away from the counter slowly, deliberately. It wasn’t the grabbing rush that Neal expected from men and knew how to field. Instead, Peter stepped up and put his hand on Neal’s face, tipped it just the tiny bit needed and looked right in his eyes. Searchingly. It was so intensely direct that Neal wanted to shy away. Again, Peter was proving braver. And smarter. That very difficult gaze said much more about complexity than words could. Fear, conflict, empathy, intimacy, it was all there, along with raw connection. It said, among many other things, that even if—when—the consequences got dicey, Peter wasn’t going anywhere and that he understood the foundation truth of Neal, that if anyone ran, it would be Neal. 

It went to Neal’s core. He stepped their bodies together and offered his mouth, leaving just the last inch for Peter to choose. Not every guy was into that sort of thing, especially not with the lights on, eyes locked. Apparently, Peter was. 

And he was such a fine kisser after all that Neal couldn’t resist testing him, yielding and pursuing, and he found himself becoming increasingly, raggedly breathless as Peter softened at Neal’s aggression and came after him just as Neal eased off. Finally, Neal broke away and buried his face in Peter’s neck. “Wow,” he whispered. 

“I’ll take _that_ as a compliment.” Peter sounded much more cavalier than his thumping heart would suggest he could. He brushed his nose along Neal’s neck, breathing him in, and Neal arched into him, leaving no room for doubt about either man’s state. Peter’s arms tightened around him, his hands sliding along bare skin, holding him, this time acknowledging all the complexity of the act. 

Neal’s whole body seemed electrified from the inside out, something he had felt on a couple of more interesting substances and once or twice with Kate. He felt reckless, joyous with the sensation. In the arms of someone who wouldn’t hesitate, he would have simply followed, surrendered, and enjoyed whatever happened. But he was pretty sure he was expected to provide some direction. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” Peter asked, lips just behind Neal’s ear, which didn’t help Neal’s composure. 

“I’m… I hate to trot out a tired metaphor, but you led masterfully there and I’m having trouble switching roles mid-song.”

“Then don’t.” Peter bit softly into Neal’s neck, running his tongue over the pulse. Neal gasped. Keeping a firm grip, Peter maneuvered them out of the kitchen, kicked off his shoes, and urged Neal up onto the bed underneath him. “The last time I put you into this bed was far too chaste.” 

How the sound of the words hummed through Neal’s body then. “It’s what I needed. And I didn’t thank you.” 

“Oh, yes you did.” The light filtering in from the kitchen left Peter’s face shadowed but his voice was low and growing warmer by the moment. 

“Again, sorry for the hit and run,” Neal managed before Peter mouthed lower on his neck and rendered him speechless. 

Peter’s lips lifted briefly. “ _Stop_ apologizing. It wasn’t technically consensual but that wasn’t the problem. I like sex to be reciprocal. Interactive.”

Neal bit back a groan. “Don’t think I didn’t enjoy it,” he whispered. 

“Don’t think I didn’t relive it. Opening my eyes to see you... Jesus, Neal. Realizing that I wanted this.” His strong and sure hand found Neal through his trousers. 

Neal reached up and tore Peter’s t-shirt open with his bare hands. So ended witty repartee.

Novice and not, they coordinated remarkably well. Peter discovered that many places on Neal’s skin were erogenous, and Neal let him explore. He kept hands on Peter when he could surface enough to move. 

He was restored to lucidity when Peter asked Neal if El would be safe—one of the more loaded questions demanding pure integrity that he’d ever been asked—and when he answered, “yes, absolutely,” not knowing what would happen, he discovered that Peter was very, very good at _reciprocal_ , long delays notwithstanding. 

It was probably an illusion that his orgasm had lasted five minutes, or that lightning bolts had blazed around the room, but he did have to untangle his fingers from Peter’s hair afterward. A tousled Peter sat up and smiled happily down at Neal.

“Amazing.” Neal smiled back. “But didn’t that freak you out a little?”

“The first time you went down on a woman—didn’t that freak you out a little? I don’t mind admitting it. That was like,” he rolled his eyes up as though calculating, “many hundreds of times ago, so it didn’t really stop me.” The most substantial evidence that he was doing just fine was quite close by.

“Touché.” Neal rolled over, pressing Peter back on the sheets, “Let’s not rush you this time.” He tried hard to make up for the afternoon gone awry, soaking in every detail and surfing Peter through the big water until the right wave to ride came along.  
*******

Neal woke up first, instinctively wary enough not to sleep through until daylight. He watched Peter for a minute or two, wondering how anyone could sleep on their stomach. And then he couldn’t resist running his hand along the small of Peter’s back, up over his ass, back and forth, wiping away a charcoal thumb print along the way. 

“I was having a swell nap. What gives?” Peter smiled and stretched, rolling to his side and propping on an elbow.

“Just looking at your fine ass.”

Peter’s expression suddenly turned more serious. “On that note, I don’t want to overthink, but I should probably say out loud that I don’t believe I could actually… fuck or be fucked. Not per se.”

“Now you tell me.” Neal teased and then reached out to touch Peter’s lips. “Suits me just fine. Not being a pain-with-pleasure guy, I never was much of a bottom myself. Knowing that makes it difficult to top unless I’m absolutely sure the other person is into it.”

Peter’s brows drew together. “In prison, did anyone ever hurt you?” his voice went gruff.

The protectiveness felt nice. “I always have loyal bodyguards. And I don’t really need them. My greater talents do not lie in sexual favors as it turns out.”

“Liar,” Peter shot back, relief visible. 

“We have work tomorrow—today. So we have to prepare, now that we’re running a long con.” 

Peter looked bemused, and Neal noted, also wonderfully, sleepily handsome. “On whom?” Peter asked.

“Everyone but your wife.”

“Oh.” 

Neal enjoyed the shifting expressions moving over Peter’s face. “That is, if anything like this might ever happen again.” He didn’t mean it to sound like a question.

Peter snorted. There was some stubble by now, and he scrubbed a hand over it. “I’m still enjoying afterglow, and you’re already plotting.”

“It’s protective plotting,” Neal sounded mildly outraged. But he liked that Peter would admit to afterglow. It was promising.

“We’re smart guys, right? Mature. We know better than to snog in the office or the car. Not much more to it than that.”

“Oh, snog, very British. So look, I’m going to keep right on making hero-worship puppy eyes at you, and being snarky when you yank my leash, and nobody will be the wiser. You’re going to be the problem.”

“I haven’t been, have I?”

Neal thought about that. “It’s different, now though. Isn’t it. This was fully participatory.”

Peter smoothed his thumb along one of Neal’s eyebrows. “Neal. If nobody noticed me looking at you funny the whole last month, they aren’t going to.” 

The rumble in his voice jolted deep in Neal’s belly. Too soon, not enough energy, but he felt it. He leaned over and kissed Peter to let him know. “We have to be careful on the phone from now on. Nothing in discussions that could be overheard, voicemail, texts, or emails.”

“Sounds restrictive.” Peter sighed. “We’ll figure it out. You can come up with a codebook if it makes you feel… more prepared.”

“Moz sweeps my place twice a week, so that’s all good. But he also pops over at odd hours. June is mother-hen watchful. They’ll expect you to be here, even at odd hours, but they won’t expect me to hesitate to open the door for them when you’re here. We have to plan a cover for that. And then, there’s whomever ran Fowler. Apparently, we just aren’t uninteresting enough to fly under the radar.”

“Would Mozzie have a problem with this? Or June?”

Neal was stunned. “You wouldn’t care if they knew?”

“I don’t want to go around creating blackmail material, but short of that….” He shrugged. And then chuckled. “Most men worry about hiding an affair from their wife. This has to be one of the more unusual cases.” 

“I wouldn’t call me an affair, exactly,” Neal said abruptly.

“No offense intended.” Peter looked at him askance. “More of a paramour?”

Neal wrinkled his nose and then realized Peter was teasing. He started to laugh. “Oh, you had me going.”

“Also utterly unacceptable— _boyfriend_ ,” Peter shuddered dramatically, “and the ubiquitous _partner_.” Peter slid to hover over Neal’s chest and watched him for a few breaths. “ _Inamorato_ , then.” He planted a kiss on Neal’s lips and rolled off, groping for his shorts on the floor. He looked back over his shoulder. “And yes, I know what it means.” 

“I love it when you dust off arcane vocabulary,” Neal joked, to cover the wonderful shock of it. “Sorry, that was a deflection. What I mean is, the feeling is mutual.”

Peter smiled at him, softly, and then held up the shreds of his former t-shirt. 

“Borrow one of mine.” Neal found his own shorts under one of the pillows and slid into them.

Peter snorted, pulling on his socks and pants. “Flattery… where else could it possibly get you?” He glanced at his watch. “I really gotta go or Satch will start howling soon. Walk me to the door?” 

Neal leaned on the jamb while Peter buttoned his coat up all the way. He hadn’t even tried to struggle into one of Neal’s t-shirts. When he was done, Neal grabbed him by the lapels and hauled their mouths together. “I hope that wasn’t overly Casablanca,” he said after he reluctantly let go.

Peter nuzzled him. “Not overly. I had a great time. See you in the office.”

Back in bed, hearing Peter’s car start, Neal reflected with a smile that he’d have to remind him not to whistle on his way out.  
*******


End file.
